The Case of the Disappearing Brides
by Serious Snugglebunnies
Summary: Brides are going missing in London. Can Sherlock Holmes convince Sergeant Sally Donovan to go undercover with him as newlyweds to solve the case, even though she loathes the very sight him? Oh, I think he can.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock Holmes isn't the only one who can read the clues.

Sergeant Sally Donovan knows it's going to be bad news the second she walks into Lestrade's office. Her first clue is that Sherlock is already there, sitting in one of Lestrade's hardback chairs so imperiously you'd think he built the chair himself using nothing but superior intellect for a hammer.

Of course where Sherlock is, Dr. Watson is never far behind these days. He's in the other chair, ready as always to mop up the latest verbal mess made by his idiotic new BFF. He seems a nice enough bloke; she can't fathom why he wants to spend his days with someone who treats him like a cabana boy. Having said that, rumour has it he just might be a cabana boy with benefits, which would explain a lot. Her mind veers away from that image like it's a horror movie chainsaw massacre.

The three men fall silent as she shuts the door behind her. This is clue number two that she isn't going to like what they have to say. "You wanted to see me?" She pointedly ignores the two of them who aren't her boss.

"I suppose she'll do," Sherlock says. "She's a bit plain and scrawny, but there really isn't anyone else, is there?"

Lestrade shrugs. His suit jacket is hanging over the back of his chair and his tie is loose – they're all great pals now, it seems. "There's Constable Sims. She's been a beat cop for a few years, so she could handle herself fairly well."

"The one with the thing on her face?" Watson asks, wincing.

"That's her."

Sherlock dismisses the idea out of hand. "No, Sally's the only female in your department who's the right age and physical description. It has to be her."

"What are you going on about?" she asks him. She doesn't call him a freak in front of Lestrade, but she likes to think they both understand it's automatically implied.

Sherlock slaps a newspaper down on Lestrade's desk with all the drama of a Coronation Street murder trial. It's not a daily, just a community newsletter that focuses on good news rather than bad – that's why it's free. He's circled a story about a small local hotel that'll be closing its doors at the end of the month due to the owner's impending retirement. There's a photo of the owner and his staff looking rather relieved about the whole thing. "So?" she says.

He points to the names listed under the photo. "Guy Guyford, maintenance man." There indeed is Guy Guyford at the edge of the photo, a lumpy brute of a man who's wearing his coveralls and scowl with equal aplomb. "His name stuck with me because I found it odd his parents would strap him with such an awkward moniker."

"That is very odd, _Sherlock_."

He lets that one sail right on past. "I knew I'd seen his name before, so I tracked it down." He produces a photocopy that he now hands her. It's from a year-old newspaper, with the subtle headline: VANISHED. It's one of those crime flashback stories that details a cold case from fifteen years ago, regarding a couple honeymooning in Scotland. They got in a raucous fight in their hotel room, and the hotel staff had to intervene. All was then quiet until morning, when the groom reported that his brand new wife was missing. Suspicion fell directly on the husband, of course, but without a body or some other physical evidence nothing could be proven. In fact, there was no proof of any crime at all – the fight of the night before gave the wife motive to run fast and far. So the police sat tight and waited to see what would happen next. Nothing ever did, and the case was never solved.

"So?" Sally says.

He points past the part she's read to the reaction quotes at the end. "See who they've interviewed for the story?"

"The hotel owner and the caretaker, you mean? Oh, wait."

"Yes, the caretaker. One Guy Guyford, who claims not to have heard or seen a thing."

Sherlock hands her a second photocopy. This newspaper article is seven years old, but the story is the same: A hotel room (this time in London), newlyweds, a fight, a disappearing bride, a dead end. Interesting, but not enlightening.

He points again. "Do you see who's in the photo accompanying this story? Behind the distraught husband?"

She peers at the grainy image. There's Guy Guyford, skulking in the background, arms crossed. Damn. She'd never admit it out loud, but Sherlock is entirely gifted at seeing patterns no one else can. "So you think the caretaker murdered these women?"

"I do. The paper said he's also going to retire at the end of this month when the hotel shuts down, and that'll be it. Essentially he'll get off scott-free with two murders. "

Uneasiness creeps into her stomach. "And?"

Lestrade leans forward. "And we'd like to do a sting operation to see if we can nick this fellow before it's too late. Sort of a last-ditch attempt."

She looks at the photocopies one more time. "Based on this? This is your evidence? Sounds like it'll be a job to get clearance for a wire tap."

Lestrade clears his throat. "Yes, well. This case isn't exactly on the record. You'll get paid for overtime, of course, but it's not...that is...I'd like to keep it on the down low if possible."

She doesn't even know where to start. She's always thought Lestrade smart as a whip, practical, handsome, cunning, and also charming and yummy-smelling. But ever since Sherlock Holmes has cozied up to him, he's lost his senses. Lestrade has developed such a man-crush on Sherlock's detecting abilities that he can't seem to stop himself from going along with these crazy schemes. "So no wire?"

"Not as such, no."

"And no backup?"

"I'm your backup. You can bring your PAVA spray, of course."

"And you want me to go undercover and pose as a bride? Will you be the groom?"

"I'd rather remove myself from having a direct hand in the case," Lestrade says, displaying at least that much good judgment.

"Then who?" She looks at Sherlock in case he wants to tell her.

He steeples his fingertips under his chin and smiles at her.

"No." she says at once. "Not a chance. Not him."

"I'd do it," Dr. Watson says, offhand, like he doesn't want to sound too eager.

Sherlock is petulant. "I want to do it. I discovered the connection to the caretaker. It's my case. Besides, you're too short to marry Sally. And old."

"I am not! I'm practically the same height as Tom Cru – oh, forget it." It seems he's now been friends with Sherlock long enough to know he lost this battle before he even left the house that morning.

Lestrade steps in. "Sally, I'd consider this a personal favour if you'd do this for me. Plus, think how lovely an arrest in this cold case would look on your record."

She mulls it over. Having Lestrade owe her one is no small accomplishment. And he's right about the arrest; it's not every day you get to nab a serial killer. It would be fantastic to bring this fellow to justice after all these years. Wait, what is she saying? She shakes the logic back into her head. "You have no proof Guy Guyford is the killer. None. It's total conjecture on _his_ part." She glares at Sherlock.

Sherlock is ready with an answer, because he's always ready with an answer. "Then you have nothing to worry about. If you're so certain I'm wrong, we'll spend the night free-of-charge in a relatively nice hotel room and be none the worse for it. If I'm wrong."

And what can she say to that? There is no response that won't lead her directly into his trap. One of the many things she can't stand that about him. "All right, I'll do it. But if you try anything – _anything – _I'll spray you with my PAVA."

"You have absolutely nothing to fear in that regard," he says in such a way that it makes her feel like the most undesirable woman in the entire country.

She turns on her heel and stalks out of the room. Lestrade can give her the details by email. She's half way out the door when Sherlock calls after her, "For God's sake, do try to put on some makeup and fix your hair. Otherwise we might as well just use Constable Sims, ugly be damned."

Constable Sims, who's ten feet away from Sally in the hall and in plain sight of Sherlock through the glass wall of Lestrade's office, gapes at him, appalled. "Sorry about that," John Watson says with an awkward wave to Constable Sims. Sherlock, of course, has already forgotten any of them exist as he maps out his next move with Lestrade.

Sally stomps to her desk and riffles around the top drawer for a Pepcid AC. She slams the drawer shut so hard that a couple of the other detectives look up from what they're doing. They quickly look back down, though; they know better than to attract her attention now.

Wear some makeup, indeed. Sally doesn't care how unreasonable her dislike of Sherlock Holmes appears to others, he's earned every bit of it. She's spent the last six years clawing her way up the ranks in this office, enduring the mean-spirited jokes and the smarmy come-ons, passed over for promotions that apparently required a penis to successfully navigate them, and relegated to every shite assignment because that's "just the way it is". She's had to be twice as clever, twice as hard-working, and twice as bitchy as most of the other cops in this office to get where she is, and that's all right. She can accept that.

But here comes Sherlock Holmes – untrained, a bloody _civilian_, autistic or psychopathic or whatever the fuck he is, barging in and taking over and trampling on the rules that she's had to live by. He's snotty and mean and his methods are ridiculous. Nothing more than a magician's trick that doesn't stand a chance of holding up in a court of law. _He had a tan line, your honour. That's how I knew he was a human trafficker._ God! Of course, he doesn't care about that, about justice being served. He just wants to be right. Every single time.

Sally can't help but wonder what would happen if Sherlock Holmes disappeared from a hotel without a trace instead of another bride. The thought gives her a measure of comfort as she tries to brace herself for having to spend a night with him. Alone. In a hotel room. She reaches back into the drawer for another stomach acid tablet, which will have to do until she can get her hands on some booze.

Two days have passed since the meeting in Lestrade's office, and Sally and Sherlock are presently in the back of a cab, up the street from the hotel where Guy Guyford is winding down his last days of employment. Sherlock has already bribed the cabbie with an impressive fifty quid in addition to the cab fair, to bugger off for half an hour so they can go over the details of their undercover operation in private. She is, in fact, wearing makeup and a sparkly hairband, and feeling all the more ridiculous for it.

"Remember, when we get in there let me do the talking," Sherlock orders her.

"Do I have a choice?"

Even though the question is rhetorical, he still says, "No. Now, how long have we known each other?"

"Six months. A whirlwind romance." She pretends to gag.

"At what church was the ceremony?"

"St. Andrew. My mother cried buckets when I married _you_."

He digs in his coat pocket. "Here's your wedding ring." It's a modest affair, plain gold, no diamonds. She puts her hand out, fingers splayed, but instead of slipping it on her he turns her hand over and slaps it into her palm.

She shoves it on herself, wondering how he knew her ring size. "Don't you get a ring?" she asks him.

"I'm a chauvinist pig who's going to be drunkenly slapping you around in a few hours. I don't believe in wedding rings for men."

"Fair enough. So, are we ready to go in then?"

"Don't be stupid. You're not even sexually aroused."

Her hand freezes on the car door handle. "Pardon me?"

He speaks every word with extra emphasis, as if she's a precariously few IQ points away from being a cooked parsnip. "This fellow, the killer, wasn't born yesterday. If he suspects anything, smells the faintest whiff of trickery, he's not going to take the bait less than a month before retiring, is he? Too big a risk. As he's doubtlessly seen thousands of newly married couples, he's going to expect us to not only behave a certain way, but _be_ a certain way."

"Give me some credit. I can pretend to be in love with you for a few minutes if that's what the job requires."

"Although I highly doubt you could pull off even that minor feat, it takes more than acting to subconsciously convince someone who sees lovers on a daily basis. It takes body language and even physiological manifestations which can't be faked. Certainly not by you, in any case. Dilated pupils, flushed face, that sort of thing."

She can't help but think he's overestimating just how much anyone who isn't him actually notices things like that, but far be it from her to question the great Sherlock Holmes. "Then what's your plan, exactly?"

"I'm going to stimulate you until you've reached a convincing level of arousal."

She blinks. "You are so not going to do that. So not, not ever."

He pinches the bridge of his nose like a migraine's coming on. "May I ask why?"

"Because I find you repulsive."

"No, you don't."

"Yes, I do."

"No, you don't.

"Yes, I bloody well do."

"No, you...all right, you do. But not physically repulsive – it's only my personality that disgusts you."

"How would you know if I think you're ugly or not?"

"Because of my facial symmetry, height, and physical prowess. I have unusual features, yes, but still fit the genetic markers that females seek out in a potential mate. In other words, I'm tall, dark, and handsome, even to you."

"You're the colour of tapioca! Even your lips are pasty."

"Perhaps, but UV ray avoidance will undoubtedly extend my life and reduce future laugh lines, therefore making me all the more attractive to the fairer sex. Plus, my hair is dark."

"You're round the bend. And I'm not doing it." She crosses her arms to show she means business.

His answer to that is to push a speed dial button on his cell phone with one emphatic thumb. Lestrade picks up after less than half a ring. "What's happened?" he asks without preamble. Sherlock has helpfully set it on speakerphone.

"Sally won't do as I say. She's putting the entire case in jeopardy."

Lestrade's voice is not happy. "Put her on."

"Oh, she can hear you."

Sally, I know this isn't ideal, but please be professional enough to put aside your personal feelings and go along, all right? For once can you be a team player?"

Sally is nothing short of outraged that he could possibly suggest she's less of a team player than Sherlock Assholian Holmes. "Sir, he wants to do things to me. He wants to...dilate my pupils." She can't quite bring herself to say anything more graphic than that. It's just too awful.

"I don't care if he wants to wrap you in cellophane and call you a present – he knows what he's doing. This is your job, Sergeant. I suggest you start acting like it." She's sure he slams the phone down, even though it's just a click on their end. So much for him owing her one.

The silence is excruciating, but as always, Sherlock doesn't let it last long. He tugs his ridiculously pompous scarf free from his neck, followed by his equally pompous coat. "Now where were we?" He's so smug it clouds the car like a noxious fume.

A new word would have to be invented to adequately describe just how much she hates him at this moment. She takes a deep breath and tries a last appeal to his better judgment. "The people walking by will be able to see what we're doing."

He barely gives the tourists and office workers a glance out the window. "No, they won't."

Unless they're all suddenly struck blind, she can't understand how to avoid it. "Yes, they will."

"No, they won't."

"Yes, they...stop contradicting me!"

"Then stop saying things that need contradicting."

His ego is so massive it's a wonder it doesn't collapse into itself like a black hole and crush them both. Sally suddenly realizes that this is her grand chance to finally prove to Sherlock Holmes that he isn't always right, he can't always get what he wants, and she isn't a puppet in the play that passes for real life in his head. He wants to turn her on, huh? Him and his bad haircut and weird cheekbones? She'll see about that. "Fine," she says. "Try your best, you creepy git. That'll be the day the likes of you can put me in the mood."

"Challenge accepted." He reaches for her with both hands and she gives a little involuntary scream. He lets his arms drop and peevishly rolls his eyes. "Please spare me your theatrics. It's not as if you're the virginal maiden about to be assaulted by the heartless cad. Just pretend I've bought you supper and drinks in a mid-scale restaurant – that's probably all it usually takes to get you in this position."

And that was his seduction line of choice. Splendid. Did anyone deserve to be knocked down a peg as much as him? "You don't know anything about me."

He's already bored with her bickering and pulls out his phone so he can play around with it. "I know you slept with a married man with whom you work. I expect that's a pretty good start to knowing who you are."

Sally feels her cheeks burn. "That was a mistake. I had too much to drink at a bar after work and things got out of hand. I barely remember going home with him."

He sighs as he tucks his phone back into his coat pocket. "Really, now you're just pleading my case for me."

How she'd like to club him to death with a golf club. She settles on seething silently. It's not as satisfying as the beating would be, she guesses.

"Anyway, how awful can it be? You're fully dressed, in a public street. It's not like I'm going to ravage you." The way he says it, with a wrinkled nose, reassures her as well as hurting her feelings. "And it won't take long," he promises. "Five minutes, tops."

"Five minutes? You think you're going to have me begging for it in five minutes?"

"Five minutes _tops_."

"Shut up now, seriously. Do whatever you want, because it's not going to work anyway. All I ask is that you tell me what you're going to do before you do it. No more surprises."

"Agreed. Take off your coat and roll up one of your sleeves."

She does so, groaning at the idiocy of it all, although she leaves her coat underneath her as a barrier between her and whatever else has touched this car seat. "What are you going to do, take my blood?" she asks as she hikes the sleeve of her silk top above her elbow.

"I'm going to tickle the inside of your arm. It's a nonspecific erogenous zone."

"It is?" Sally's not sure anyone has ever paid special attention to her there before, seeing as how the blokes she dates invariably leap toward either her boobs or crotch if given half the chance.

He must sense her doubt because he spells it out for her. "That area has heightened sensitivity due to the thinner skin there. All the nerve endings are closer to the surface. You see?"

Only he can make sex quite this dull. She holds out her arm in sacrifice as if she's Bella and he's Edward, which he is most certainly not. "Go ahead then."

He takes two fingertips and begins to gently stroke her skin at the pulse point in the crook of her arm. It's the first time he's ever touched her. The world instantly narrows and slows until all she can feel is his touch. It's more exciting than she imagined it would be. She supposes it's true that she doesn't find him ugly, as such. He's almost exotic-looking, especially his eyes. And his self-confidence is attractive enough – at least for the first two minutes after you meet him. Then...ick. That snaps her out of it. She's been pawed by better than him, by god. She makes a production out of covering an enormous yawn with her free hand. He gives her a piercing look, then turns his head away and gazes into traffic. Good. She does the same.

They're both still staring out their respective windows as he draws lazy figure eights on her, when Sherlock says, his voice sympathetic, "I completely understand why you were reluctant to do this. It's obvious, of course."

She peeks at him, but his eyes stay on the cars in the street. "No kidding," she retorts. Pauses. Then, suspiciously, "Why?"

He shifts his long legs into a more comfortable position. "Think about it. I have carte blanche to do any shameful thing I want to you in the back of this cab, all of it against your will. Imagine if I can get you hot and bothered even though you detest me. That would make you a very wicked girl indeed, wouldn't it, Sally?"

And just like that, with two short sentences, Sherlock Holmes has conclusively gone all-in. Because Sally is a good girl, and always has been. She flosses every evening and gives to the homeless, she recycles and sends bad guys to prison. She can't possibly be a wicked girl, and most especially not a wicked girl in the back seat of this cab with Sherlock Holmes. Suddenly the most important thing Sally has done, must do, will ever do, is refuse to be turned on by whatever he decides to do to her.

His fingers haven't changed they're rhythm, but now what she feels in those two square inches of skin is ten times as dirty as a moment ago. Her body goes rigid, because there's no bloody way she's going to let him see how his words have affected her. She should punch him and storm out of the cab, but what would Lestrade say about her team player abilities then? Sally retreats against the door, hoping for a moment's respite to pull herself together, but of course his hand just moves the extra six inches to follow her. He's not going to let her off that easy. "I am _not_ hot and bothered," she says shrilly. "Your stupid finger tickles aren't doing a thing for me."

He stops at once, which leaves her simultaneously overjoyed and bereft. She sits up and straightens her clothes as if her dignity might have fallen there in the creases. He lifts her chin with the edge of his finger and examines her face, her eyes, then says, "Mm, you might be right. Tilt your head. I'm going to have to bite your neck instead."

She can't speak; all the spit in her mouth has vanished. She fears she will spontaneously combust, yet finds herself helplessly turning her head to allow him to continue, because if she's going to win, she has to let him do whatever he wants to her so she can show him how little she cares. That still makes sense, right? She's not quite sure, but it's too late, because he cups her cheek with his hand, coaxing her closer. His touch is warm and self-assured. His hair smells like coconuts. He presses his lips against her exposed neck, which sends her body into dizzy shock. They sit there like that, not moving, and for a hopeful moment she thinks maybe that's all he's going to do. Maybe he's nervous and inept and he'll have second thoughts and everything will be okay – and then he actually bites her and her bum comes right off the seat. He works his way toward her collar bone with agonizing precision as shock waves of hot pleasure radiate from her neck to...well, it doesn't matter to where. It takes every ounce of control she has not to make any noises. She grips his shoulder and holds her breath as he toys with the idea of giving her a hickey. Not by any definition can she describe his technique as "inept".

He finally stops. Her body is jelly, but she's survived it; relief washes over her. She's not sure if she's still a good girl, but at least he's not sure she's a wicked girl. Then he says matter-of-factly, "Now open your legs because I'm going to run my hand up your thigh."

As it turns out, him announcing his plans in advance makes the whole thing worse, not better. Her heart is galloping. She tries to calm herself – she's wearing jeans, after all. Thick, sturdy denim. He can't even get to her skin. She slowly moves her knees apart and waits with aching anticipation for what's coming next.

He gauges her reaction as he sets his hand on the inside of her leg and lets it rise higher. She prays her expression is impassive. Bored. The opposite of terrified. Sherlock's thumb rides the seam of her jeans all the way up. He doesn't look down; he knows where he's going.

What she needs to do, she decides in a rising crescendo of panic and hormones, is to _pretend_ to be hot and bothered, because then he'll be satisfied and stop. He'll think he's won when he hasn't, not really, and that will be good enough. She has to do _something_, because he's searching her eyes, and she's pretty sure he can see straight through her, into her; he's Sherlock Holmes, after all. And that's why this is so thrilling, isn't it? Not because they're getting to second base in the back of a car, but because it's him. His mouth, his teeth, his hands that are doing this to her, that are making her feel this way. She hates him, and she wants him, and he knew it all along even if she didn't. Somebody moans, and she suspects it might be her.

His hand pauses when he runs out of room at the top of the inside of her thigh. She can't breathe and she can't think because there's wicked and then there's wicked, and she feels her self-control crack into pieces like overheated glass. He whispers, "Now I'm going to..." and that's as far as he gets before she grabs him with both hands by that unruly mop of hair and kisses him. Not only is he not surprised, she can feel him smirk as he kisses her back. She doesn't care. She kisses him harder, and lets go of his hair long enough to push his hand between her legs. She's gasping for air, trying with limited results not to thrust against the heel of his palm, her ears ringing like an alarm is going off in her head.

Sherlock pries her off of him and takes his phone from his coat pocket. He pushes a button and the alarm that was going off in her head stops. Oh. "That's five minutes exactly, including all the debate at the beginning," he says, beaming. "I think that should do the trick." He's not even out of breath, the bastard. Her lip gloss is a shiny pink smear across his mouth, but he doesn't attempt to wipe it off.

Sally rights herself, utterly dazed. She realigns her sparkly hairband gone askew and looks out the window to see who's witnessed her spectacular lapse in judgment. But Sherlock is dead on again; the windows are so entirely fogged by her heavy breathing they might as well be frosted. She tries to think of something rude to say. Something scathing. Nothing comes to mind.

He gets out of the cab and comes around to open the door for her. He has to actually help her out, because her legs still aren't working properly. He takes their luggage out of the boot and saunters down the street toward the hotel, pulling the bags by their handles like dogs going for a walk. He's whistling, because he's a fucking idiot that way. She follows him, trying not to stagger. She would very much like to pull her damp panties free, but can't for obvious reasons.

They go into the lobby. Sally has absolutely no doubt everyone will believe they're horny newlyweds; she feels like the lit fuse on a piece of dynamite. She can barely make eye contact with anyone. The owner is standing behind the counter, writing something down. He looks up at them and smiles. "May I help you?" he asks.

Sherlock puts an arm around her shoulder. He grins widely, like he's the most aboveboard, friendly, honest bloke in the world. In a cockney accent straight out of Mary Poppins, he says, "Mr. and Mrs. Sherlock Holmes here, checking into the honeymoon suite."


	2. Chapter 2

The owner of the hotel is a stuffy fellow with a thin moustache and a thick waist. He looks up their name in a massive reservations book full of handwritten entries. "Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes. Congratulations to you both." He slides a piece of paper across the desk. "Sign here and initial here, and I'll get Gus to to take your bags up to your room." He turns away and picks up the hotel phone.

Sally leans over and whispers, "Are you sure it was a good idea to use your real name? Aren't you worried someone here will know who you are?"

"No. I called ahead pretending to be someone from the newspaper. I asked for the email addresses of the employees and the fellow who answered the phone helpfully told me that nobody who works here even knows how to turn on a computer. Off the internet I'm nobody, trust me."

"I could have told you that."

"You have, and rather often."

They don't have to wait long and Guy Guyford trundles in from the hall, wiping his hands on his overalls. His face is as pinched as if he'd been sucking lemons, at least until he spots them. Then a smarmy grin comes over him, and he hurries to scoop up the suitcases into his meaty paws; no using the sissy pull handles for him. "Afternoon, folks. I'll be taking you up to the honeymoon suite on the third floor."

Their room is on the top floor of the hotel and the elevator is ancient and cranky, so they clamber up the stairs instead, the men first and Sally trailing behind. Guy is chatty and helpful all the way up, opening the fire door for them while he tells Sherlock about some of the local landmarks they might want to take in, seeing as how they're not from around here. He unlocks their door for them, with an actual and amazingly quaint key instead of a swipe card, and stands expectantly after he dumps their luggage by the bed. Sherlock slips him a fiver, which Guy tucks into his overalls. "You need anything, Mr. Holmes, you just let me or the Missus know. She can get you extra towels and such, I can fix anything gone wrong. You two have a wonderful night. Don't do anything I wouldn't do." He turns to leave, and glances at Sally just long enough to leer at her in the most degrading way possible. It's quick, but enough to make her stomach flip-flop. Guy is sweet icing slathered over a rotting piece of meat.

"Did you see the look he gave you?" Sherlock asks the moment they're sure he's down the hall can't hear them. "He definitely fancies you – hopefully enough to kill you. Fingers crossed."

"He's creepy, no doubt about it. Puts on a good show, though. Who'd guess he's such a bastard?"

"His old parole officers and the people he's beaten to a pulp over the years, for starters. I bet The Missus has some stories she could tell us about him." He carefully hangs his precious coat and scarf in the tiny closet.

"Did you know his wife worked here?"

"I did. She's stuck with him through thick and and assault charges."

"I wonder if she knows about the missing women."

He pulls his laptop from his suitcase and sets it on the small table beside the bed. "If she does, she's not talking."

Apparently neither is Sherlock, because the moment his laptop is fired up, Sally is no longer his concern. She tries a bit of small talk, but he ignores her so utterly that she soon gives up. She empties her suitcase and puts the PAVA spray under one of the pillows. The room is nicer than she expected, muted and tasteful, although the furniture was new when Robbie Williams was still with _Take That_. There's a bottle of mid-priced white wine chilling in a bucket of ice on the table, and fresh flowers in a vase beside the wine. This would be a lovely place to enjoy a honeymoon – with anyone other than her present fake husband.

She wanders over to the desk and peers over his shoulder to see what he's looking at. It's a website with pictures of entry and exit wounds. "How perfectly romantic," she says.

He leans away from her. "You might want to take a shower."

"Why?"

He sniffs. "Because you're a little bit ripe. You got all sweaty when I was making you horny back in the car."

Will the indignities never end? She's blushing, she knows it, and that's even worse. "I was _pretending_ to be horny so you'd stop touching me!"

He left clicks to bring up an image of a .22 long rifle exit wound. "You're an amazing actress, Sergeant. Helen Mirren has nothing on you."

"Sod off. Fine, I'll go take a shower if it'll shut you up."

"Might want to make it a cold one."

"Did I say sod off? I meant fuck off. Right off the deep end."

He clicks over to an article on Wikipedia. "Duly noted."

She puts the water on perhaps one or two degrees cooler than normal and soaps her skin from neck to foot but doesn't wash her hair because that would be twice in under eight hours. She makes a conscious effort to not do anything that could be construed or implied in any way to be even close to an interpretation of the act of masturbating. She uses both white bath towels to dry off – he can use the hand towels if he wants to take a sodding shower.

He's clacking away on the keyboard when she comes out, and doesn't even skip a beat when she climbs on the bed. She searches for a remote, then she searches for a television, and finally concludes that most honeymooning couples must not want to watch TV. She's stuck in a room with Sherlock Holmes and absolutely nothing to do. She doesn't have a laptop and didn't think to bring her iPod, and her cell phone is for work so doesn't have any games on it. For a while she watches Sherlock reply to emails with depressingly dense blocks of text, then finally breaks down and asks if she can use his phone if he has anything good on it. He studies her: the specimen under the magnifying glass. "What's your definition of _good_?" he asks.

"Music. Audio books. Movies. Games."

He grudgingly hands it over to her, along with a pair of earbuds that look like they cost more than a meal in an expensive restaurant. "Stay out of my emails," he orders her. "I'll be able to tell if you snoop."

Undoubtedly. He doesn't have any games, but as it turns out he has an astonishing collection of music from around the world. After much fast forwarding, she decides she hates all of it and switches to an audio book of Ian Rankin's latest novel. "I'm surprised you listen to mysteries, being you and all."

"I keep hoping they'll outwit me." 

"Do they?"

"No."

She rolls her eyes, although she supposes it's not easy being Sherlock Holmes – too smart, too smug, bored to tears waiting for someone to surprise him. She can't imagine what he must have been like as a child. Unbearably precocious, she'd guess, and friendless. She hoped his parents liked him, at least. Sally would be smacking him around within five minutes if he were her kid, she was sure. On the other hand, maybe his parents were the reason he turned out this way. Maybe they were the same as him, and molded him to be the creepy freak show that he was. Bloody hell. She wonders what they think of him now. She shudders at the thought of Christmases around the Holmes's dinner table, though for all she knows they don't even speak to each other. "Do your parents live around here?" she asks him.

"My parents have nothing to do with the way I am," he says without looking away from the laptop.

She's equal parts astounded and pissed off. "How did you know what I was thinking?"

"It's elementary, really. I told you I can't be outwitted, although I hold out hope that one day someone will. That made you think about what makes me tick, and if I'd always been this way, and if my parents were the cause of it, and where they are now. Thus, your question." He backspaces disdainfully, as if her rudimentary thought process made him lose his place in whatever he was typing.

She puts the earbuds in her ears and hits play to get as far away from him as mentally possible. Even though Inspector Rebus's latest case is as suspenseful as always, soon enough Sally drifts off. She's awakened who knows how much later by a hand on her shoulder, shaking her roughly awake. She fumbles for the PAVA spray but the hand presses her down into the bed, stopping her. She turns her head to bite the hand, but Sherlock says, "For God's sake, I'm going to order Chinese. Do you want anything, or will my fingers be enough for now?"

The room swims into focus, his frowning face above her. He doesn't change expression when her stomach growls. "Oh," she says, running her arm over her mouth in case she's drooled. "Beef and greens, please. And the skinny noodles, not the thick ones. What time is it?"

He takes the earbuds out of his phone and hits a speed-dial. "Almost seven. You slept forever. You shouldn't have any problems staying awake tonight."

A disinterested teenaged boy delivers the Chinese food right to their door, and they sit crosslegged on the bed together with the food spread out between them to eat it. Everything's hot and delicious, and they share a packet of soy sauce to lessen the chances of spilling whatever is left over on the comforter. They discover a common interest in superior take-out, and share their secrets of the best hole-in-the-wall restaurants in the city. Sally does not have an awful time – but that's as far as she'll grudgingly take it.

After they clean up he allows her to surf the 'net on his laptop while he lies down for a rest, ear buds planted firmly so as to block out any annoying noises she may make. She checks her email and the BBC news, but unlike Sherlock get bored rather quickly and decides to phone people instead. She calls Lestrade and updates him, then moves on to her best friend, her sister, another friend, and finally her mother. She doesn't tell them where she is and who she's with, or she'd never hear the end of it; they've all been subjected to too many rants on the subject of one Sherlock Holmes. On this note she silently vows to take the earlier events in the cab with her to her grave.

She eventually hangs up and is pondering who to call next when Sherlock opens his eyes. "Do you never run out of things to say?" he asks.

"That's hilarious coming from you," she retorts, but closes her phone.

He checks his watch. "It's just about ten. Ready to put on a show?"

It's a relief to get back to business. "Very."

"Then we should change into something more appropriate. I assume you brought something for the occasion?"

She has, a simple baby blue polyester nightgown with white lace that she puts on in the bathroom. She stares at her image in the mirror, but unlike Sherlock's accusation can think of not one thing to say to herself.

She goes back into the room where Sherlock is waiting for her. He's changed into cotton pajama bottoms, and that's all. She stares at his naked torso and feels absolutely nothing; there's a good chance she's slipping into shock. He looks her up and down. "You don't look very skanky. I hope pretty and enticing is enough for Gus."

She thinks he just complimented her, but with him even a compliment is an insult. Still, it makes her feel good. A little wee bit.

He takes the wine bottle from the ice bucket and expertly uncorks it. He fills a wine glass just enough for a taste and takes it over to her. "To us, darling," he says. She reaches for it but it turns out to be a wasted effort because he throws it on her instead. She sputters and swears. "What the hell did you do that for?"

"I'm picking a fight with you. Is it working?"

"I wanted to beat the crap out of you well before you did that, so I'm not sure."

He fills her glass all the way this time and hands it to her without incident. "Nice big gulp," he instructs her. "So your breath reeks of it."

He doesn't have to ask her twice. She's been ready for a drink since 6 a.m. that morning. They both empty their glasses, but he doesn't offer her a second one. The wine is actually quite nice, a Riesling.

He sets his glass on the table. "Right. Remember our goal is to have a row that's rough enough to get the attention of Guy Guyford, so let's get out of hand for our neighbours, shall we."

Sally's been to enough domestic calls to know what that takes. "If you want complaint calls, there's going to have to be physical violence. Otherwise people just cover their ears and ignore the yelling."

He's scandalized, mysteriously. "Surely you aren't suggesting I actually hit you?"

She curls a lip. "I know you think I'm a delicate flower, but I was a beat cop. I lost count long ago of how many drunks have thumped me over the years."

He ponders it. "It would have to be loud enough to hear through walls."

"Just knock something over and give me a couple of claps on my bottom. Nice and scary sounding, that."

He still isn't convinced. "There might be bruising," he warns her.

"There goes my swimsuit modeling job."

They face each other like prize fighters, he in his pajama bottoms and she in her nightgown. She has to admit this is a little bit fun, alleged murdered women aside. She's good at this, and knows he'll be good at it, and it's always a pleasure to dance with a skillful partner.

He's just as eager as she is, she can tell. "First we need to start a loud argument, which quickly escalates to pushing and shoving, and then the slaps and perhaps a broken lamp. Surely that'll be enough to get our neighbours to call down to the front desk."

"Got it." She takes a cleansing breath. "Why do you always have to drink too much?" she asks him bitterly.

"Because I like it. Why do you always have to be such a bitch?" His tone is casually cruel, like it's not the first time he's said it to her.

She let's her voice rise in anger. "That's a fine thing to say to your wife on your honeymoon. That's beautiful. One of has to be the grownup here. I guess since I'm the one with the job, that would be me."

He stomps across the room so he can slam the bathroom door shut. "What, now you're going to blame me for the recession? I'm not the one who wanted to get married so frigging bad – you just couldn't wait to get me trapped, could you?"

She follows him across the room and shoves him in the chest without warning, and he stumbles back into the bathroom door. He didn't expect it, which is gratifying to say the least. "Trapped? You've got to be joking. I get to to clean your flat and cook your meals, and _you're_ the one who's trapped. I don't know why I agreed to marry you."

"Because nobody else would have you. That's why you live alone and nobody likes you at work except the ones you screw when you're drunk."

That one cuts a little close to the bone. She strongly suspects that was a personal insult designed to make her anger more "real". Well, it bloody well worked. "You'd know, wouldn't you? Everybody hates your guts. That's why you have no friends." She grabs a bit of flesh on his waist just above the drawstring of his pants and pinches him as hard as she can.

Sherlock yelps in pain. He attempts to pinch her arm in retaliation, but all that police training Sally's had pays off in spades, and she blocks him with her wrist. Wax off, pal. Apparently he's had some sort of training of his own, because he blocks her block and pinches her other arm before she can react. "Bollocks," he replies. "John Watson is my friend. I have him."

By his injured tone it seems like he's not the only one who can sling a well-placed insult. She pinches his chest and dances back to avoid the retaliatory pinch. "Do you? If I set my mind to it, I could have John Watson moved out of your flat and into my mine in six weeks time."

It's hard to tell with his skin, but she suspects that he blanches. "That's ridiculous." He puts a foot out and trips her, pinching her thigh as she grabs his shoulders to save herself.

"Is it? That he'd choose a person who can actually love him back?" Sally pinches his neck as she urges him backward.

They scuffle across the room, pinching and dodging in turn. "I'm warning you," Sherlock barks with an ugly pinch to her hip. "If you try anything of the sort with John, I'll get you fired from your job so fast you won't know what hit you."

She's incredulous. "For what?"

His voice is icy. "For anything I want."

She pinches his ribs, viciously. "Are you seriously threatening me? I could have you arrested, remember – for anything _I_ want."

He pinches her cheek and doesn't let go, instead yanking her head so they're inches apart from one another. "And I could have you begging for it in five minutes, tops."

She's so mortified by this dig that she loses the self-control of which she's so proud and reaches up and pulls his hair like she's twelve. She thinks of the meanest thing she can possibly say. "I could have John begging for it in less time than that."

Sherlock presses his lips together in a thin white line, then takes her by the shoulders and roughly turns her around, tearing one of the straps on her nightgown in the process. He sweeps the phone off the table along with the ice bucket and wine bottle and the vase of flowers, and it all goes crashing to the floor. He pushes her over onto the desk and holds her there. She doesn't have any time to struggle free, she can only turn her head and watch in the mirror across the room as he raises his hand in the air, the muscles flexing in his shoulder as he brings his arm down with all his strength and spanks her, one, two, three times, the cracks ricocheting off the walls of the room. Sally can't help but cry out as he does it, at the pain and humiliation of it made worse by the fact she not only agreed to this but talked him into it, and a small dark corner of her mind wonders if she's ever experienced anything quite as hot as this perfect perversion.

There's a moment of stunned silence when he stops. He keeps her there for a moment more, then says to himself with obvious satisfaction, "There's definitely going to be bruising." He releases her and she turns around to face him. They're both panting. He clears his throat. "Excellent work, Sergeant Donovan," he tells her, and before she can either force herself on him or kill him, there's someone pounding at the door.

He raises his eyebrows and grins: mission accomplished. "Sod off!" he shouts, but this just makes the pounding more insistent. He stalks to the door and fumbles with the lock a moment before he opens it. Guy Guyford is waiting, one fist raised and ready to hammer a hole through the door if it becomes necessary. "What d'you want?" Sherlock drunkenly demands.

Guyford shoulders his way into the room, pinning Sherlock against the wall with one forearm across his throat. "I want you to knock it off up here. I want you to keep it down and play nice and stop breaking our stuff. Got it, sport?"

Sherlock, looking appropriately terrified, nods.

Guyford lets him go and takes a gander at Sally, with her torn nightgown and bare skin and flushed face. He bares his teeth in what is supposed to pass for a smile. Sally folds her arms over her chest. This would be a much different conversation if she was in her uniform. Or dressed, even. Now that his authority has been established, Guy puts his arm around Sherlock and gathers him into a brotherly clinch. "You've got to keep it together, mate, no matter how much she deserves it. Make her listen, sure, but be quiet about it. Can you do that for me?"

"Of course. Sorry for the trouble," Sherlock says. "She just makes me so...so..." He pounds one fist into his open hand.

"I understand," Guy tells him with much sympathy. "As for you," he says to Sally, "you promised to love, honour, and obey, sweetheart. Did you already forget?"

"I said I'd cherish him, not obey him," Sally snaps. "And it would be a sight easier to do that if he'd stop _hitting_ me."

Guy shakes his head. "You've got to nip that in the bud," he advises Sherlock. "But not in the hotel. Not tonight. All right?"

"All right," Sherlock says, and vigorously pumps Guy's hand, the official handshake of the abuser's club.

Guy exits, saying gruffly on the way out, "Whatyer waiting for? Go and clean up the mess in there."

For the first time Sally notices a woman standing in the hallway, who resembles no one as closely as Mrs. Claus, with white hair and wee reading glasses perched on her nose. She's got a broom and dustpan in her hands, and she hurries in the room and heads straight for the mess of flowers and broken vase on the floor. At least the wine bottle was corked. "Oh, my dears, I'll have this out of your way in a jiffy." She glances with obvious concern at Sally, who remembers too late the red welts on her face and body. She tells Sally kindly, "You may want to get one of the robes from the closet, Mrs. Holmes." So this was Guy's Missus. Sally wonders how many times she's been at the receiving end of Guy Guyford's lessons.

Sally's grateful for the suggestion, and is soon bundled up in a fuzzy white terrycloth bathrobe, especially glad to hide the red hand prints on her bottom of which she can still feel every finger. She watches the woman make short work of the wreckage, efficiently disposing of the remains in a garbage bag she has with her.

"There you go," she tells them when she's done. "Good as new. I'll leave you to it, then." She takes her leave, but hesitates at the door as if she's just thought of one last thing. "You'll have to excuse my husband. He don't mean any harm, he just has a way about him, a way to keep the peace. Tough love and all that, eh? I'd be ever so grateful if you wouldn't mention to the owner what he did just now."

Is this why the women disappeared, because they'd gotten Guy in trouble with his boss? Surely if that were the case he would have been a suspect already. Sherlock interrupts her musings when he says, "No, we understand. Our lips are sealed." He turns an imaginary key at his mouth and throws it dramatically away. He's quite a convincing drunk, she grants him.

"Ooh, thank you darling. I tell you what, I'm not supposed to do this, but hows about I get you a nice batch of fresh cookies and some drinks, free of charge?"

"Would you have any more wine?" Sherlock asks hopefully.

"I think you've had enough wine for tonight – what kind of fizzy drink would you like?"

He sighs and ponders it. "Diet Coke?"

"I'll take root beer if you have it," Sally says. Screw it, she's going for the sugar.

"Splendid. I'll be back in two shakes." She is, too, with a styrofoam plate loaded with chocolate chip cookies and the two bottles of pop. She opens them with a bottle opener from her apron pocket. "There you are. You two have a peaceful night." She shuts the door softly behind her.

Sherlock shakes his head. "Loyal to a fault, isn't she? I hope for her sake that Guy's mellowed as he's aged." He's already sitting down at the desk and opening his laptop.

Sally gets on the bed and takes the plastic wrap off the cookies. She devours one; getting spanked by Sherlock has worked up her appetite. Not sure if it's going to make it better or worse, she feels obligated to discuss what happened when they were fighting. "Look, about what I said earlier about John..."

He stops typing and turns the chair toward her, his hands on his knees. "That was brilliant. Really took the fight up a notch."

"Yes, but it wasn't very nice. I'm sorry."

He rotates the chair back to the laptop, back to whatever he was reading. "No need to apologize, Sergeant Donovan. I of all people understand about doing what's necessary over doing what's nice."

What she really doesn't need is to hear how much she and Sherlock Holmes are alike. "Cookie?" she asks him, and she's glad when he takes one.

"A little salty, but otherwise delicious," he declares, and then he stops talking to her again. They eat all the cookies and sip their free pop, and the minutes soften and run together like melting wax. Sally feels much better after a while, the cares of the case and her life and the world slipping away as she nuzzles into the terrycloth robe. She's extremely regretful there aren't more cookies. She's examining the styrofoam plate, wondering how such a strange and mysteriously squeaky thing can even exist, when she hears Sherlock giggle.

At first her brain can't comprehend it, and concludes he must be choking to death, or having a seizure. But no, she looks over at him and he's guffawing into his fist, his shoulders shaking. On the laptop's monitor is the unmistakable video of a cat trying to fit into a box that's too small for it. "Um," she says, and he jerks as if he's been electrocuted.

"Look at this!" he says with great excitement. "Is this not the funniest thing you've ever seen?" They watch the cat leap into a box much too small for its girth, only to promptly get wedged in like a gigantic cat muffin top. They both dissolve into gales of laughter. "Now he's wearing the box like a hat!" Sherlock says, wiping tears from his eyes.

The video ends and they both sit back, snorting with amusement. "I didn't take you for the cat-video watching type," Sally finally says after she collects herself.

"My mother emailed it to me last fall. I didn't bother to play it until this very minute. I had no idea what I was missing."

"Have you seen the one with the parrot who sings heavy metal?"

"Show me!" Sherlock commands even as he unplugs the laptop. He leaps into the bed with her and cuddles up, and it's no time at all until they're both in paroxysms of laughter together. "These are genius," he gasps. He grins over at her as if she's the most delightful person he's ever laid eyes on. This unnerves her more than anything else he's done since she met him.

"Do you think something is...wrong?" she whispers to him, uncertain of what she even means.

"Wrong? Wrong?" he says more to himself than her. "I'm not calculating probabilities or assembling clues or storing details. I'm not bored or anxious. In fact, the only thing I'm thinking about right now is cats in boxes. On the contrary, I think everything is just right."

He sounds so profoundly content that she feels obliged to leave it at that. "I can't believe you've never seen any of those videos before."

"I didn't know they existed."

"Really?"

Let me clarify; I didn't care they existed. I'm too busy using the internet for important things."

"Like porn?" she jokes. She can't believe she just said the word _porn_ to Sherlock Holmes.

He takes it in stride. "Ick. No. They're all terrible actors – I never believe they feel the slightest bit of real emotion for anything they're doing or having done to them."

"You mean you don't watch porn because it's not romantic enough for you?" She couldn't be more delighted with this concept.

He snaps the laptop shut and tosses it rather carelessly onto the desk. "Is it so absurd that I want sex to mean something?"

"Between porn stars? Yeah, it is. Wait, do you mean the sex _you_ have ?"

"All sex! All sex should be meaningful. That why I stopped having it. I don't have the proper time or energy to devote to a lover."

"What about in the cab? That wasn't meaningful."

"That was purposeful."

"But not fun."

He grins. "No, it was fun. But that wasn't why I did it."

"So you never have sex just for fun?"

"The sex is always fun. It's the part that happens after that is the direct opposite of fun. The heartache and tears and recriminations and so forth."

"Is that you or the other person?"

"Which do you think?" he asks dryly.

"Point taken."

He sighs. "If only giving someone your heart were as easy as giving them orgasms, but life isn't that simple, is it?"

"No it most certainly is not. Wait. Go back to the orgasms part for a second."

"What about it?"

You find doing that is...um...easy?"

"Utterly. Deduce the underlying hidden desires and act on them without mercy. Couldn't be more straightforward."

"Right, right." Is it hot in here or is it just her? She tugs on the belt of the bathrobe until it loosens. The broken nightgown strap dangles down her chest. She doesn't dare touch the strap, just stares at it as it moves with her shallow breathing.

Sherlock doesn't miss this, of course. He reaches over and helpfully ties the broken ends together. If she leaned forward two inches their noses would touch. "Did you know I can bring someone to orgasm without even touching them?" he says as casually as if he were discussing his ability to ride a bike with no hands.

She bursts out laughing again, and reaches over and snaps the waistband of his pajama bottoms. "Okay, now you're just being silly."

"It's true!" He tucks both thumbs into the waistband of his pajamas and readjusts it just so on his hipbones.

She's never considered Sherlock's hipbones as a separate entity before. They're very easy to find, the way they jut out like that. She has to tear her eyes away from them. She doesn't care how sharp his cheek – she means hip – bones are, there's no way he's some kind of sexual Merlin. "Maybe you could do that to a man. _Maybe_."

He's laughing, too. "Why do you say that?"

"Because men are always on the verge of orgasms anyway."

"Man or woman, it's all the same to me. Hidden desire, no mercy – kablam! Often more than one kablam, depending on how much time I have."

"But aren't you gay?" This has slipped out of the part of her brain she usually shields from conscious thought. She clamps a hand over her mouth like it's somehow still possible to lock the words in even though they've already escaped the barn and galloped over the hill. She's snorting helplessly through her nose.

He pulls her hands away. She lets him. "I find labels to be so constricting, don't you?" he says and kisses her playfully on the mouth. "See, I kissed a girl and I liked it."

She's astonished, then thrilled, then ashamed, bam-bam-bam, like emotional firecrackers setting each other off in the Chinese marketplace of her soul. She tries her hardest to let him know that she's still in control of herself. "There are some things even you can't do Mr. Sherlock Holmes," she says as severely as she can given that they're both cracking up in each other's arms.

His eyebrows rise in a way that Sally assumes is saved for those poor souls who have dared to underestimate him in the past. "Want me to prove it?"

Sally stops laughing.


	3. Chapter 3

Sally Donovan can't quite believe what she's hearing. Sherlock is offering to demonstrate that he can give her a touchless orgasm. In a locked room. Where no one will ever know if she says yes. She's not sure whether to curse her luck or send it a gift basket. "You're kidding, right?"

Sherlock cocks his head. "Do you want me to be kidding?"

She can't decide how she wants to answer that. After the silence stretches to ridiculous lengths, he breaks it on her behalf. "If you don't believe I can do it, then you can prove once and for all that I'm a deluded egotistical prat. That would be its own satisfaction, I'm sure you'd agree."

How does he do that, where he makes it seem like it's the best thing for her if she lets him get his way? It would be lovely to at long last prove him wrong. It would be equally lovely to prove him right. Her thought process is a tad fuzzy at the moment, but it seems this is a no-lose proposition. "All right, do your worst. I just honestly don't see how something like that is possible. Seriously."

"Look at it this way: what's the most important sex organ?"

"My vagina?"

"No."

"I don't know, I think my vagina's pretty important."

"Yes, I'm sure it is, but your brain is even more important."

"Oooh, right. Of course."

"And I can touch your mind any time I wish. I can _ravish _your mind. All the things that frighten and arouse and enrage you are jumbled up in a tight knot in your head. To me they're all the same, the pressure points of your id."

"Sherlock, at this rate you're going to make me sleep, not come," she says, and starts giggling all over again, because this is probably the funniest thing she's ever said. She belatedly worries that this might hurt his feelings.

But it's all good, because he thinks she's funny, too. He's definitely laughing as he gets off the bed and goes to the closet, then takes his stupid prissy scarf off the hanger and wraps it around his fists to test it for give.

"What are you doing?" she asks him curiously.

"You really hate this scarf, don't you? I can see it in your face every time I put in on or take it off. It represents everything you detest about me, my arrogance and callousness and so forth."

This makes her sound so petty that Sally can't admit he's right. "It's a very nice scarf," she says with a self-absolving shrug.

"Mm, yes. But the scarf isn't going to be so nice tonight."

"What does that mean?"

"It means I need you to sit up on your knees now, that's a good girl. Now give me your hands."

He ties the scarf around her wrists then loops the rest of it through the wrought-iron accent piece on the top of the headboard. He pulls the other end of the scarf tight and holds it there. "Lie back," he tells her. She obeys, and he lowers her down until her bound hands are touching the headboard and her feet are tucked securely under her bum. Which of course serves up everything between her legs to him like it's on a platter. She breaks out into a fine sweat; nobody makes her sweat like Sherlock Holmes.

"There!" He sits back, hands on his knees. "How does that make you feel?"

She swallows. "Embarrassed. Excited."

"Exactly." He bounds to the bathroom and returns with a pair of fingernail scissors. He leans over her and begins to painstakingly snip her knickers off her. She holds her breath and perhaps arches her back, but he's careful not to touch her skin. "I could've just had you take them off, but I'm cutting them to ribbons instead. Ruining them. How does that make you feel?"

"Angry. Excited."

He smiles as though this is exactly the answer he expected and tosses what's left of her underwear onto the floor beside the bed. Then he brings his full attention back to her, sitting cross-legged in front of her open legs. She's naked from the waist down, tied up, her feet tucked under her, helpless. Now she's just excited, no other emotion. Excited and excited. She can't even breathe.

She waits in an agony of anticipation to find out what he's going to do next. What can he possibly say to bring her over the edge of her self-control? What insights into her soul is he going to expose? Suddenly she doesn't want to know. She shouldn't have said yes to this. She squirms, but the scarf is tied in some elaborate knot that won't budge. It's much too late, and much too early, for the full spectrum of regret building in the pit of her stomach.

Sherlock taps his index finger against his lips, pondering. "I wonder what Lestrade is doing right now," he says to no one in particular.

She doesn't respond to this and, in fact, makes her face go completely neutral even as her muscles bunch. She has a feeling this is a rhetorical question.

Her expressionless expression somehow doesn't fool him. "I wonder what he'd think of all this if he could see us right now. What he'd think of you, tied up, with your knickers long gone."

She's never told anyone about her crush on her immediate supervisor, never indicated in any way that her feelings for him veer crazily toward inappropriate. It's a secret she's locked carefully away, and Sherlock has pulled it from her like a plastic toy from a Crackerjack box. "Don't," she whispers, staring straight up at the ceiling.

He ignores her. "Do you think he'd untie the scarf and rescue you? Or would you prefer that he lock the door and take a turn with you instead? I wonder what exactly he'd do to you if he knew he could get away with it."

"_Please_ don't." She knows she's begging him, not for the first time today, and that it won't do a bit of good, and he's going to keep talking, and she feels the insides of her thighs turn wet and sticky. This doesn't escape his attention, much to her everlasting mortification.

He continues, his tone impersonal. "Would you oblige him, Sergeant Donovan, when he asks you to open your mouth just a bit wider? When he bends you over? When he gets a little rougher than you'd like?"

She's panting now, tears in her eyes. She doesn't say anything this time, because she's afraid she'll say _yes, yes, yes_.

"Or perhaps he'd like to join me. There's enough of you to go around, isn't there, Sally? One of us on each end? Oh, the fun we'd have. Not that we'd need your permission. He and I could take turns holding you down, couldn't we?"

She's dizzy with need now, this verbalization of every dirty fantasy she's ever nursed – and some she hasn't even thought of – wracking her body like the precise lashes of a whip. She closes her eyes and rides his voice as he describes in graphic details all the things Sherlock Holmes and DI Lestrade might do to her if they set their minds to it. This is worse than the cab. Much worse. She strains against the air, tortured by the absence of physical release. Now she understands why he tied her hands – so she can't touch herself.

She's weak and shaking, throbbing with unmet desire, when she interrupts his soliloquy on the benefits of the two of them servicing her, front and back, in the hotel shower. "Wait. Stop. What exactly is supposed to happen to me here? What are you aiming for? Because I really, really need to know."

He blinks. "Well, your body is finally going to get so aroused that even the slightest pressure on your genitals, an exhaled breath, your nightgown brushing against you, even the rhythmic clenching of your thighs, will finally set you off."

She moans. "And how long do you think that's going to take?"

"I dunno. A couple of hours maybe."

"A couple of hours?" Sally squawks. "A couple of _hours_? I can't take this for that long. I can't take this another _second _. You've got to do something. Prove something else to me, you idiot!"

He doesn't even have to think about it. "Sure! How about we change it to how many seconds it takes you to have an orgasm during sex with me? I guarantee under thirty. How does that sound?"

She lets out a ragged sob of relief, she can't help it. "Yes. Yes, please."

He pulls his pajama bottoms off with a flourish and dashes them to the floor beside her knickers. He joins her on the bed, extremely and undeniably ready to perform to his utmost capacity. "Do you want me to untie the scarf or...?"

"Leave it!" she barks at him. "Get on! Get on!"

He pulls her legs out from under her and hooks her feet over each of his shoulders. The implication of this is almost too much for Sally to bear. His skin is cool against her overwhelming heat. They make eye contact and both of them freeze. "Don't fall in love with me, Sally," he tells her in all seriousness.

He's unbelievable to the very end. "Shut up and fuck me, Sherlock. I mean _now_."

"Very well. I'll keep count of how long it takes you. Ready?" She is so very beyond ready, and her body jerks when he thrusts into her as hard as she could ever hope for. "One thousand one," he says, and that's as far as he gets before she completely falls apart. He's methodical and merciless, and he finally has to cover her mouth so the neighbours don't call the front desk again because of the noise she makes. He attempts to add up the number of times she comes, but decides it's too difficult to determine when one ends and the next one begins. Unsurprisingly, he's well in control of his own body and Sally is battered and barely conscious by the time he finishes with her.

They collapse on the bed, arms and legs and scarf tangled together. They slowly grin at each other. He reaches up and frees her hands. "That was amazing," she tells him.

"Told you so," he replies.

"I'm seriously dying of thirst. Is there any pop left?"

There is, and they both gulp the remainder of that, then fill the bottles with water from the tap and chug that down, too. They sprawl out on their backs on the bed, fingertips touching, catching their breath. It's the nicest moment she's ever had with him.

They lie in silence for a while, when Sally's attention is slowly drawn to the little red light on the smoke detector by the door. It's beautiful, really, like a miniature supernova. She's mildly interested when it starts to expand, spilling over until it fills her vision. Her body is heavy, so heavy that even the thought of moving is impossible to contemplate. Her arms are mountains, her legs, continents. Her eyes flutter shut, although the red remains.

She doesn't care in the least when she hears a key slip into the lock of their door and the deadbolt slides out of the way.

/

Sally thinks she might be on her way to heaven. Everything is white and she's floating along inside what is possibly clouds. The journey is unreasonably bumpy, and rather smelly for the afterlife. At one point her stomach lurches, and heaven's angels ding a bell three times. This is extraordinarily baffling, but it doesn't matter in the end because even though Sally tries her hardest to fight it, her mind fades to black like an old Hollywood movie.

She has no idea how much time has passed when she finally awakens. She's most definitely not in heaven and is in, in fact, a laundry room. There's an industrial-sized washer and dryer across the room, a chute aimed above a mountain of crumpled white sheets and towels, and a row of detergents and such neatly lined up on a shelf. There's also a wheeled maid's cart for transporting soiled linens and, she suspects, herself. Good; she is almost certainly still in the hotel.

That's where the good news ends. She's lying on a metal table probably used for folding towels, her hands and feet bound with thin plastic ties that cruelly bite into her skin. She tries to wriggle into a sitting position, but she's so dizzy she can't even make it to her knees. She is well and truly screwed. She struggles to pull the plastic ties apart with all her strength, but it's obvious she isn't going anywhere. She's wet with sweat, her heart racing. What does he have planned for her in this room? And what the hell is she going to do now? When the only door in the room suddenly opens, she flinches as hard as the plastic ties will allow.

It's Mrs. Guyford. Sally's never been so glad to see someone in her life. "Mrs. Guyford, hurry! You have to get me out of here before your husband comes back." Her voice is slurred, like she's gotten freezing at the dentist's.

"Don't worry, Mrs. Holmes," Mrs. Guyford says soothingly. "He's on the sofa, sleeping off all that whiskey he drank after tea."

"Fantastic. Cut these off me and I'll call the police."

"We don't need the police, my love. We can take of this all by ourselves."

At first Sally thinks this means Mrs. Guyford is going to rescue her and possibly spirit her away, but then she belatedly becomes aware of the roll of duct tape that Mrs. Guyford is carrying. Sally's stomach twists as the truth sinks in: Guy Guyford is not the one Sally should be afraid of. "What did you do to me?" she demands.

"I've just given you something to make you a wee bit more manageable."

Sally know from her entire career as a cop what this means for her fate. "You don't have to do this, Mrs. Guyford. It's not too late – you can still let me go. I won't tell anyone." How many times has she heard these words in victim statements? She knows full well that you can't bargain with the devil.

"Let you go? After all the work it took to get you down here? Not likely."

Sally lets her head fall onto the steel table. It's cold against her skin. "Why are you doing this?" Sally asks her softly. "Why?"

Mrs. Guyford pats her cheek. "My dear, this is for your own good. When you married him I know you thought you could fix him, but you can't. He's just going to get worse and worse. The slaps will turn into punches, and the punches will turn into kicks. He's going to make your life hell. Trust me, this is better."

Sally can't believe her ears. "What are you saying? You're going to kill me because my husband might abuse me?" She doesn't say _that's fucking crazy_, but she thinks it.

Mrs. Guyford tears a piece of duct tape off the roll with her teeth. "I'm not killing you, Mrs. Holmes. I'm saving you."

"I'll leave him. Let me go and I'll leave him right now, tonight."

"That's what you say. But even if you leave him, you'll just come crawling back. You always do."

"Look," Sally says. "There's something I have to tell you. I'm a police officer."

"You are, are you?"

"Yes. We know about the other women, and my partner and I were here to find out what happened to them."

"You were, were you?"

"Stop saying that! Yes, we were."

"And that would be the same partner I found naked in bed with you? That's not what the police usually do on a stakeout, is it?"

Sally cringes. "You're right, I slept with him. But it was because of whatever drug you gave us." It really was! It all makes sense now.

"That's enough nonsense," Mrs. Guyford tells her firmly. "We're wasting time."

"Why don't you just kill the husbands?" Sally asks with despair.

"They can't help it, love. They promise and promise they'll change, but they just can't. It's the way they're made." She holds out the piece of duct tape by both ends.

The words stumble over each other in their rush to get out. "They'll catch you. They'll track where I went and they'll catch you."

"No they won't." Mrs. Guyford places the duct tape securely over Sally's mouth. "You're number five and they haven't caught me yet."

Number five! Two other victims they didn't know about. Sally begins to construct elaborate escape plans as quickly as her addled brain can come up with them. She doesn't hold out much hope, as she belatedly realizes she didn't even think to scream until now.

"The trick is to get rid of any blood and skin and whatnot that might be left behind," Mrs. Guyford explains. "The first girl was pure dumb luck. Her new husband burned her bosoms with cigarettes on her wedding night. Tsk. Anyway, I strangled her and then I panicked a bit and tried to think of a place to hide her until I could move her with nobody seeing. It just came to me – the washing machine. It was plenty big, and all I had to do was add a jug of bleach and run it, and all the, you know, the evi-dence was washed away. Then it's just out in a garbage bag with the rest of the trash."

Sally looks at the front-loading washing machine behind Mrs. Guyford. It's large enough to hold two of Sally. She tries with all her might not to be sick, because with the duct tape over her mouth she's afraid of aspirating it – and this is the least of her worries.

Mrs. Guyford continues her stroll down memory lane. "After that first one, I had a stroke of brilliance. Why not save myself some work, and put the girls in the washing machine while they're still alive? Less chance of something going wrong, and they'll also have some time to think about how stupid and weak they are. A bit of a just reward, I think. Honestly, I couldn't tell you what kills them, if it were the tossing around or breathing in the bleach or what. I just know it takes them quite a while to stop fussing in there." She shrugs. "Well, let's see how long _you_ last, Mrs. Holmes."

Mrs. Guyford tucks her hands under Sally's neck and knees and starts to lift her off the table. "Don't you worry," Mrs. Guyford tells her, "I'll bury you in the woods at my sister's farm out in the country. Very pretty and peaceful."

Even though the world pitchesunpleasantly to and fro, Sally prepares to attack Mrs. Guyford, to headbutt her then knee her in the stomach and crawl away. She refuses to contemplate what will happen to her if she fails.

Suddenly there's a commotion at the laundry chute, clattering and banging, and much to Sally's shock Sherlock tumbles into the pile of dirty sheets and towels at the bottom of the chute. He's wearing both the top and bottom portions of his pajamas now. He sits unsteadily up on his knees and points at Mrs. Guyford, who is equally shocked. "Unhand her, madam!" Sherlock commands, then topples, tree-like, onto his back.

Mrs. Guyford drops Sally back on the table. "Mr. Holmes! You're supposed to be asleep in bed. My stars, this throws a wrench in things."

"It was the cookies," he mutters. "You salted the cookies so we'd be thirsty and drink the pop that you drugged. You're a very sly woman, Mrs. Guyford."

"And you're a very stupid man, poking your nose where it shouldn't be. It's going to be a right pain in the arse to get rid of two bodies, I'll have you know." She gives an impatient sigh as she stomps over to him. She chooses a towel from the pile beneath him and folds it in half and half again. "Did you phone anyone for help?" she asks him.

He opens his eyes a slit and looks at her. "I don't need anyone's help."

"Thank goodness for small mercies," she says to herself, and forces the towel over Sherlock's mouth and nose. He attempts to pull her hands away, but in his condition he doesn't stand a chance; forty years of domestic labour has rendered Mrs. Guyford strong as a bricklayer. Sally silently begs him to punch her in the kidney, or put a thumb in her eye, but instead after a few seconds he goes completely still. Sally screams against the duct tape.

Just as terror and grief start to overwhelm her, Sherlock comes back to life, his hands rather purposefully patting up and down Mrs. Guyford's torso as if they're looking for something. Sally can't imagine what, until his fingers find the pocket of her apron, which she's had on since they met her. Mrs. Guyford tries to retreat away from his touch, but she doesn't dare let go of the towel covering his face; she's hoping he'll pass out before he can do anything else. This turns out to be a grave tactical error, because he pulls out the bottle opener that she used to open their bottles of pop. He flips it over in his hand and, using his other hand to guide him, stabs Mrs. Guyford on the inside of her leg.

She shrieks and lets go of him, pulling up her skirt as a spray of blood covers her thigh and the floor. "You dirty beggar!" she shouts at him as she uses the towel she was going to kill him with to staunch the flow. The blood is very red against the white terrycloth. She slaps the bottle opener out of his hand. "Do yer really think a little poke like that is going to stop me? I've had worse before breakfast many a day."

Sherlock is barely out of breath, like he practices being suffocated with a towel every night before bed. "It's not the stab wound that's going to to stop you," he says. "It's where I stabbed you."

"What, near my privates? You're a pig, Mr. Holmes, just like the rest of them." The towel she's using has become saturated with blood, and she grabs a different towel from the pile. She tosses the bloody one aside and replaces it with the new one.

"Not quite," he replies with a tight smile. "I've punctured your femoral artery."

"My wha?" she asks, frowning at the speed in which the new towel is blossoming scarlet.

"It's a very large artery that supplies the blood to your lower half. You're not going to be able to stop that blood loss by yourself no matter how many towels you use."

"What have you done?" she asks him, dismayed.

"What have I done?" he repeats as if he's working it out for himself as well. His smile widens. "I've won the game, Mrs. Guyford."

She collapses onto the concrete floor, her hands splashing into the puddle of blood growing under her. He doesn't wait around to watch Mrs. Guyford lose consciousness; he crawls to the cupboard drawers and begins to clumsily paw through them. When he pulls himself to his feet and hobbles over to Sally, he's got a pair of sewing scissors in his hand. "Hold still," he says, like she can do anything but, and cuts the plastic ties from her wrists and ankles.

She slides off the steel table and hugs him. "Why did you throw yourself down the laundry chute?" she whispers into his shoulder.

"The stairs would have taken too long," he whispers back. "Also, I think I broke my ankle." His hug is turning into a heavy lean; she staggers under it. "The ground is so far away," he says with consternation, and lets go of her so he can climb up on the steel table and curl into a ball.

She's not sure if he goes to sleep or passes out. "Sherlock? Sherlock!" she shouts, but even a sharp smack to his face doesn't bring him around. "Hold on," she pleads, and rushes as quickly as her unseaworthy legs will take her up the four flights of stairs to their room. Even Drugged Sherlock is two steps ahead of her – he's propped the neck of the wine bottle in the door so she can get into the room without a key. She finds her phone on the floor beside the bed and speed dials 999. In the three minutes it takes help to arrive, she puts on one of the bathrobes plus the spare knickers she brought in her suitcase, disturbing the crime scene be damned.

Once the police cars and ambulances come to a screaming halt outside the hotel, chaos ensues. They put Sally on a stretcher and hook her up to an IV, but after the paramedics check her out they declare her well enough to make a statement before they take her the hospital. Lestrade and John Watson stand next to the stretcher and fuss over her. Lestrade holds her hand, sick with worry and more than a little guilt, but before he can ask her anything there's bedlam at the hotel entrance.

Mrs. Guyford is brought out on a stretcher and they rush her to a second ambulance. Sally witnesses the extraordinary sight of Guy Guyford trailing along behind her, sobbing his heart out and shouting, "You be careful with my sweetheart, you hear me?"

"Is she dead?" Sally asks the paramedic carrying the back end of the stretcher, strangely devoid of any preference to the answer.

"No – but ten more minutes and it might have been a different story."

With their encouragement, Sally tells Lestrade and John about the fake argument, and how it lured Guy to their room. She tells them about Mrs. Guyford and the cookies and pop, and the subsequent disorientation they experienced. She does not tell them about the multiple orgasms. Or the spanking. She skips right to the laundry room, and the other victims, and Mrs. Guyford's sister's farm. Lestrade and Watson are suitably impressed. "You're going to get a commendation for this, officer," Lestrade assures her.

They're about to load Sally into the ambulance when they bring Sherlock out on his own stretcher. He's awake again, and belligerent. Sherlock has obviously been given a much higher dosage of drugs than her. An icy shiver runs through her – Mrs. Guyford wanted Sally awake so she'd be aware of what was happening to her when she died. "How is he?" Lestrade asks one of paramedics.

"He's fine," Sherlock answers, high as a kite. "He wants to go home."

"You can't go home, Mr. Holmes," the paramedic tells him. "We have to take you to the hospital and pump your stomach."

"I don't approve. Write that down: I don't approve of that."

The paramedic ignores him and says to Lestrade, "He'll be okay, but according to the bottles of prescription drugs we found open in her bathroom, he should be out cold. I have no idea how he's withstanding such potent opiates."

Lestrade, Watson, and Sally look at the ground. "I don't know either," says Watson.

"Can you remember what happened, Sherlock?" Lestrade asks him. "In the hotel room?"

Sally prepares to have an incredibly loud and distracting medical setback, but Sherlock says, "Sally showed me a video of a singing parrot. He sings heavy metal. And then I fell asleep and when I woke up I jumped down the laundry chute to save Sally. And that's about it. It's a good thing I was there, Sally, or you'd be going through the spin cycle right now!"

Sally can almost feel the rush of wind as the runaway train of unforeseen consequences misses her by inches. She's had remarkable, filthy sex with Sherlock Holmes, and she's the only one who remembers it. She's gotten off scott-free – literally. Now Sherlock will never use the information like a sledgehammer to bludgeon her with sarcasm or superiority. Excellent.

They load Sherlock into an ambulance. "How did you know I was in the laundry room?" she calls out after him.

"The unforced entry? The wheel marks in the carpet in the hall? Where else could you be?" He waves to them as the paramedics shut the ambulance door. "Bye! See you at the hospital!"

Sherlock is much more likeable when he's stoned.

They eventually take her to the hospital too, where she sleeps fitfully, with crazy, unsettling dreams. When she finally awakens the next morning the ligature marks on her wrists are bandaged and she's _starving_. She learns from the nurse that Sherlock is just down the hall, but she doesn't attempt to see him.

The attending doctor shines a light in her eyes, they both sign a couple of papers, and she's released. She doesn't ask anyone to come pick her up; the last thing she wants to do is talk about what happened to her. She calls a cab instead, and it's waiting for her in the pick-up zone at the front of the hospital whens she comes outside. She gets in and when the cabbie asks her where she wants to go, she doesn't know what to say. She stares at the hospital, trying to think of some place she wants to be. Not her apartment. Not her mother's – she couldn't handle her mum's Catholic sensibilities right now. How many Hail Marys would it take to absolve her of everything she did yesterday? She's not sure she can count that high.

She's still mulling it over when Sherlock and John come out of the hospital doors; he must have been released the same time as her. That's just great. His ankle is neatly bandaged. John is carrying the same suitcase Sherlock had in the hotel, and Sherlock is wearing the same coat as the day before, so John must have gone to the hotel to get Sherlock's stuff for him. It must be nice to have someone care enough to do that for you.

John notices her in the cab and smiles and waves to her, but she pretends she doesn't see him and hurriedly slides down so she's less visible. It doesn't work, because Sherlock says something to John and limps to her cab using the crutch they've given him. He stands outside looking in at her until she reluctantly rolls down the window. She has nothing to say; she's inexplicably angry with him, like he's cheated her out of something that she didn't know was important until he took it. "What do you want?"

He squints up at the grey London sky. "It's cold out today," he says instead of _how are you holding up?_ like a normal person.

"Yes, it is." She waits, eyebrows raised.

"So I thought you might want this." He takes his scarf off and pushes it through the window into her hands.

She's gobsmacked, and can barely manage to nod. "Thank you," she says weakly. She searches his eyes, wondering how much he really remembers and how much he wants to forget.

He looks away, at the people in wheelchairs getting some fresh air. "Don't make too much out of it. I have three more just like it at home."

That breaks the spell, and she says, "It's not really my tastes, but I guess I'll use it until I can find something better."

"Fair enough."

His distinct lack of sarcasm makes her add contritely, "It's a very nice scarf."

Sherlock's smile is so slight she might be imagining it. "That's what I hear."

Did he just say that? What did that mean? Did that mean something? She shuts the car window between them as quickly as humanly possible. He stands there and watches her go as the cab driver pulls away from the curb. She doesn't look back as they turn out of the parking lot, but she's sure if she did he'd be smirking away at how bloody brilliant he is. What a jerk.

When she's positive he can't see her anymore she slips the scarf around her neck. It's warm and comforting and a just a little bit itchy.

THE END


End file.
